Standing outside the formal manor
entrance, Edward Nigma envisioned his signature image, the question mark,
looming over the great house as he tried to make some sense of the previous
minute and a half. The butler had been standing in the foyer while
Wayne “escorted” him to the door, and Eddie couldn’t quite make out if he
was waiting to open it, formally and politely, like a proper butler for a
departing guest, or if he was standing by to make sure the door was
opened, lest Bruce force Eddie through it, leaving a splintery Nigma-shaped
hole in the wood. In that cyclone of churning uncertainty, Eddie
wasn’t able to give the actual conversation his full attention. But
now, having lived to take the sweet, clean, non-manor air into his lungs
once more, Eddie recalled the conversation quite clearly.

Bruce Wayne (a.k.a. Batman, but
more significant in this case, Old Gotham blueblood and high society
insider) had most definitely said Eddie had no need to bother Selina with
those tawdry tales of Claudia Muffington, that there was no shortage of
prospective confidants available, that every man on the North Shore had
“been in the back of that cab”—including Harvey Dent!

The name was spoken just as that
too-officious butler swung the door open, and Eddie’s concern that his head
not make sudden violent contact with the heavy solid wood made it difficult
to focus on anything else. But he still managed to sputter out the
obvious angle that Wayne was clearly overlooking: Harvey had been Claudia’s
date at the start of the evening that ended in the back of that taxi.
Harvey was the one sitting next to her at the opera, Harvey was the one who
checked her coat at the Iceberg. It was Harvey’s date that
Eddie had sex with.

And then, before the door virtually
slammed in his face, Bruce Wayne—a.k.a. Batman, but more significant
in this case, Gotham blueblood and high society insider—said that “Harvey
has extensive knowledge of that too.”

…

Now that… was a riddle.

“Harvey has extensive knowledge of that too.”

There was a time when “Who is Batman under that mask” was the greatest
riddle ever known. The conundrum nonpareil, the poser of posers, query
of queries, puzzle of puzzles. Since learning its answer, Eddie had
been struggling with the anti-climax. His efforts to resume theme
crimes worthy of the One and Only Riddler had been, well, tepid. He
was beginning to fear the new question he was doomed to ponder for the rest
of his days would be “How to continue doing what I do while knowing what I
know?”

But now… “Harvey has extensive knowledge of that too.”

Hm.

Harvey Dent was a pessimist where love
was concerned. He assumed that no news was bad news. Like the
night of the Gotham Post party, he’d shared a cab home with Eddie and they
talked of this and that. Since then, they’d met for coffee a few
times, and again they chatted: about sports, about crime, about the Gotham
Post, about different sports, about the Iceberg, movies, and mutual friends,
about politics, and finally, more sports. They never touched on women.
Harvey had started to date Claudia Muffington, but since Eddie never
mentioned any female except Ivy or Selina, Harvey guessed that no news was
bad news. There was nothing to tell, so he wouldn’t embarrass his
friend by asking—nor would he flaunt his growing involvement with
Claudia.

About that too Harvey had been prudently cynical. Claudia was a
knockout, but she was a twice-married, twice-divorced knockout. The
men in her circle who were her age (and his) were not the stuff of romance.
If they were still single, they were either gay or wanting a
twenty-something trophy wife. They were not looking for a gal like
Claudia. So Harvey realized that he was little more than an attractive
convenience and would be discarded should a more attractive, more convenient
specimen present himself…

The thing was, Edward Nigma did not strike him (from his admittedly
heterosexual frame of reference) as a more attractive anything. Harvey
might not have the movie star looks he’d had as an up-and-coming D.A., but
he still cut a damn fine figure. He was a Harvard man and
well-connected in Claudia’s world. For the life of him he couldn’t see
how Eddie, nice guy though he might be, could have pulled a Bruce Wayne and
stolen Claudia off his arm that way.

Nevertheless, he wasn’t a stranger to
the Vraags and Muffingtons of the world, and he recognized the maneuver with
the cabs for what it was. Both women lived in the east fifties; if
there was any question of convenience determining who would cab with
whom, they could have gone home together. The only reason for asking
where “Edward” lived was to juggle partners for the ride home. The
women had obviously come to an arrangement during that last trip to the
powder room, and that meant either Penny was interested in him,
or else Eddie would be doing the walk of shame down from Claudia’s condo at
around seven a.m.

Since he himself was maneuvered into
sharing with Penny, Harvey had thought about making a move but decided
against it. Her name was a coin, after all, and that seemed like a bad
omen. So he dropped her at her front door, declined the offer to “come
up for coffee,” and went home to his last Two-Face hideout in the Flick
Theatre. It was late enough that he wouldn’t need the drone of the
television to get to sleep, but he turned it on anyway from habit.
Channel 5 had Law and Order reruns from midnight ‘til six, and he
used it in his Two-Face days to torment his dark alter ego. Since the
healing, Harvey found he really didn’t care for the show. It was a
reminder of Two-Face, who hated the courtroom drama for obvious reasons.
Harvey felt he really didn’t need any reminders of Darth Duality, even a
cursing, thwarted, unhappy Darth. Beyond that, the show was just a
little too accurate in its portrayal of the political underbelly of the
D.A.’s office. It reminded him of his own crusading days as an up and
coming A.D.A. He didn’t relish reminders of that either. So he
flicked the dials, and a happy fate delivered a much more enjoyable
courtroom drama: Jimmy Stewart in Anatomy of a Murder, one of his all
times favorites, just starting—pure lucky coincidence.

George C. Scott was just appearing on the screen as an entirely
different kind of D.A. when… when Harvey’s mouth dropped open in
stunned shock.

A happy fate?

That was a formula of words that had never crossed his mind before.
Happy Fate? Lucky coincidence?

Jumbo shrimp.

He watched the whole movie, only half aware of the figures on the screen,
and went to bed hoping he wouldn’t dream of a Jimmy Stewart Two-Face
shooting up the Jekyll and Hyde club with a double-barrel shotgun.

“What is the worst part about knowing
Batman’s secret?” Eddie queried in his mind. Answer: that disturbing
awareness of his being a person. The Riddler did not like
seeing Batman as anything more than an adversary. The worthiest
adversary, but nothing more than that. An all but disembodied
intellect with the visage of a bat who existed to answer the Riddler’s
challenges and challenge him in return.

That. Was. It.

The sudden emergence of a human being behind that mask who was anything
more than life support for a brain was a horrific and discombobulating
shock.

“Harvey has extensive knowledge of that too.”

That wasn’t the life support for a crimefighting intellect talking; that
was a man. That was a man who once took a woman to a party or a
nightclub, checked her coat, held her chair, and then saw her disappear out
the door with Harvey Dent.

“Harvey has extensive knowledge of that too.”

It wasn’t a voice coldly stating the answer to a riddling clue before
whizzing a batarang at your head; it was a voice declaring “Harvard Prick
did it to me once, too.”

Hm.

Eddie knew that Bruce and Harvey had a history. He knew they’d
known each other and hung out socially before Harvey became Two-Face.
The details had never seemed important, but now…

Hm.

Harvey had been district attorney,
after all, an ally of both Batman and the police. No one ever held
that against him once he became Two-Face; the rogues scarcely even thought
about it. Two-Face was such a vicious critter, it was easy to forget
his disreputable past. Eddie himself had forgotten, but now…
“Harvey has extensive knowledge of that too.”

Harvey Dent had been an ally of
Batman. Harvey Dent had been buddies with Bruce Wayne.
Bruce Wayne was Batman.…

He needed to get to the bottom of
this.He needed to get to the bottom of this.He needed to get to the
bottom of this.

“Harvey has extensive knowledge of that too.”

Could Harvey know the truth about Bruce Wayne and Batman?

Hugo Strange knew, which was bad
enough. As Selina once predicted, Eddie had spent many a sleepless
night wrestling with that ghastly notion. Hugo Strange, an inferior
intellect in every way imaginable, getting there first; it was
inconceivable. It was inconceivable that Hugo could learn the secret
before the mighty Riddler, so Eddie had finally come to the conclusion that
he hadn’t. Hugo didn’t deduce anything, infer anything, or
realize anything. He didn’t know anything, he’d guessed.
He happened to guess right, but that was dumb luck and it simply didn’t
count. In deference to Bruce Wayne’s brilliant mind as much as Eddie’s
own, that was the only rational way to look at it: Hugo didn’t count.
Hugo Strange’s theories about Bruce Wayne were just as groundless,
psychotic, and weird as if Wayne wasn’t Batman at all, ergo, Hugo didn’t
count.

Selina knew, but that was also a very different (THIEF LEFT TO SACK)
kettle of catfish. He didn’t know how exactly Catwoman had learned
Batman’s identity, but he could guess that it wasn’t an intellectual
achievement. However it happened, Eddie could live with it.
There was a lot he didn’t like about Bruce and Selina being together, but he
could honestly say that Catwoman knowing the secret before him did not enter
into it.

But Harvey? That would be a blow. Harv was a stand-up guy and
Two-Face was one serious Rogue, but it would still be a blow.

And yet, much as his ego looked on this possibility as the grisly innards
of a reptile it might have to chew and swallow at some point in the future,
the better part of his mind was intrigued rather than repulsed.

“Harvey has extensive knowledge of that too.”

If he did know—if Harvey knew that Bruce Wayne was Batman—it would be the
answer to the great riddle Eddie now faced. Two-Face never seemed to
have a problem trying to kill Batman. He would shoot at the Bat with a
double-barrel shotgun, slice at him with a double-edged razor, stab him with
a two-headed dagger, and chain him to twenty-two pounds of double-star
explosive. And Harvey still hung out with Selina.

Why couldn’t Eddie have that? Why indeed? THAT was the riddle
for the new millennium: Why indeed?

If Harvey knew, then Harvey knew!
If he had the answer to “Who is Batman under that mask?” then he had the
answer to “How do you eradicate the filthy bat-pest knowing it’s the love of
Selina’s life under that mask?”

He had to find out the truth.

He had to.

He HAD to!

Super-hearing, that’s what the human race called it. To
Superman, it was nothing more than his Kryptonian senses detecting
frequencies that human ears could not. Same with Super-vision.
There was nothing special about it; it was just the way his body worked.

Detecting the problem with Nightwing,
on the other hand, that was the kind of thing Clark would call a super sense
if he was inclined to toss the prefix around. It went beyond simply
noticing what your eyes and ears put in front of you... Although, now
that he stopped to think about it, no, it didn’t. It amounted to
exactly that: noticing the minute shift in the timbre of the voice that
reflected a subtle rise in tension on a given word or syllable, catching the
faint clench of a facial muscle or a slightly ragged expel of breath...
Bruce once called him a walking polygraph machine, and Clark had to admit
that honing this skill had been a boon to both of his jobs, since criminals
and interviewees both had a remarkable habit of lying. But none of it
was “super” because he could see and hear what no one else could. His
father would do the very same thing, taking in what his regular human senses
told him about you and then declaring: “Something sure has you tied in a
jumble, Clark.”

While he didn’t use the phrase ‘tied in a jumble’ with Nightwing, he did
drop Robin off first in Brentwood, and then, rather than immediately
returning to Bristol, he asked if ‘Wing would like to go for a beer. A
few minutes later, Clark Kent and Dick Grayson walked into a near-empty bar
in a Brentwood strip mall and ordered a pitcher of a Bludhaven microbrew.

“I’m sure that’s not what either of you were expecting when you went to
the manor this morning,” Clark began casually. “What were you there
for?”

“Oh y’know, the usual, paying a visit,” Dick said lightly.

Clark applied one of Lois’s best interviewing techniques: saying nothing
after a question was answered. He waited patiently, calmly expecting
that there was more to follow, while Dick studied the television above the
bar for a minute. It was a golf tournament, with a small Breaking News
window in the corner, looping footage of the launch pad fire and Superman,
Nightwing, and Robin’s appearance there.

“Okay, that’s a lie,” Dick said abruptly, then took a long sip of beer.
“What I was doing at the manor was making a big mistake. It was dumb
bringing Tim, and truth be told, it was probably a dumb mistake going to see
Selina in the first place. She just seemed like the best option
available.”

“Oh?” Clark offered, just to break up the silent “expecting more” routine
without actually putting a new question on the table.

“You and Bruce are tight,” Dick continued after another long, thoughtful
sip. “Does he seem okay to you, or does it, I don’t know, feel like
maybe he’s kinda falling back on old ways?”

“That’s what you went to ask Selina about? You’re a married man,
Dick, doesn’t that seem a little intrusiv—”

“I know,” Dick admitted, “I’m not sure what I was going to ask or say to
her. I just couldn’t think who else to… Bruce has been really
pouring it on lately, and I’m pretty concerned about it. That’s why I
wanted to see her.”

He sighed.

“But I hadn’t worked out what to say or how to approach it, and then I
went and brought Tim along. Between us, boy did we bungle it.”

Clark didn’t mention the fragment of the conversation he’d overheard.
Instead he sipped his own drink.

“Why didn’t you go to Bruce directly?” he asked finally.

“Because he played me,” Dick
announced. “Again. Like the psycho control freak all over
again.”

He explained briefly about the Be-My-Own-Man-Protocol as he saw it, and
Clark laughed. Then he took several sips of beer and laughed again.
Dick looked put out.

“Do you think the kids are overreacting to the stricter guidelines and
new procedures?” Clark asked reasonably.

“Well, yeah, I do,” Dick admitted. “Like, even now, Tim doesn’t get
why I went to see Selina. All he sees is the new protocols and he
wants to complain. He’s not even considering—”

“So, you do think they’re overreacting,” Clark interrupted. He
almost never cut in while another person was speaking, but he could see that
Dick was getting worked up, and letting him stray from the subject would
accomplish nothing.

“Yes,” Dick said curtly.

“So do I,” Clark said confidentially. “It’s a natural reaction when
new rules are imposed, particularly with young people.”

“Yes,” Dick repeated.

“So we agree,” he nodded. Then he drank his beer as if he’d made
his point. After a moment, he spoke again as if on a completely new
subject. “When we work together, Bruce treats me as an equal.”

There was a long pause as Dick glanced at the television screen, still
looping the footage of Superman hovering next to the space shuttle, and
pulling out the cargo bay with one hand.

“I would imagine so,” he said slowly.

“Do you think that’s why I agree with you about the kids overreacting?”
Clark asked reasonably.

Dick expelled a short breath, like a balloon deflating.

“No,” he admitted.

“Do you think it’s just possible that there’s no connection in your case
either?”

“Yes, I’m sure he is,” Clark admitted.
“I’m capable of having started that fire on the launch pad just to get
away from that house before I became permanently indentured to Selina’s
wildlife refuge. Doesn’t mean that’s what I did.”

It was Dick’s turn to laugh, and he drained his glass.

“Point,” he declared, and reached for his wallet. “I guess I do
have to talk to Bruce man-to-man. Find out for sure.”

Looking down at the table, he saw that Clark had already picked up the
check and was counting out bills from his own wallet.

“You do realize,” Dick sighed, “that if you’re right, I’ve become as
paranoid as he is.”

Clark froze, mid-count, and looked searchingly at Dick.

“Yes, I suppose you have,” he said warmly. “So on the way back, I’d
like to put a hypothetical before you, involving Catwoman and tigers, and
see if you can explain to me why nobody sees this the way I do.”

Bruce mounted the stairs to the upper
floor of the manor in the same mental state in which he’d once swung towards
Selina Kyle’s balcony. Those first visits to her apartment after
patrol, Psychobat screaming in his head to just turn around and go home,
the night’s work was finished and nothing good could come of seeing her this
way, informally and unofficially. Sooner or later, he would let his
guard down, and then what? A little more and a little more, before
long it would become a habit. Before he knew it, he’d be facing
Catwoman on some rooftop with a loot bag full of other people’s valuables,
and his resolve would waver. He’d drop his defenses when he shouldn’t,
and wind up plummeting down to the street—possibly discovering too late that
she’d sabotaged his grapnel launcher too.

It was many years since Psychobat’s misgivings about Catwoman had
changed, faded, and finally dissolved to nothing. But the sensation
Bruce felt now was still hauntingly familiar: his body moving automatically
along a familiar path to Selina, tuning out the Bat’s dark warnings in his
mind. He knew in his heart that as much as Psychobat was completely
right, he was completely wrong as well… and so, slowly and deliberately,
Bruce would close that door in his mind where the hate and suspicion burned
like a fire.

The door to the suite was open, and Bruce put his hand on the doorframe
rather than knocking on it. Selina was playing with Nutmeg, but it
took her only a second to notice him. He gave Nutmeg’s ball a light,
careless kick, as if he didn’t see it. It went rolling out the door,
and the cat chased after it.

“Well?” Selina asked curiously.

He said nothing but went on studying her.

“I’ll remind you that we now have six tigers, if you need to dispose of a
body,” she said with a naughty grin.

Still, he said nothing.

“Bruce! Come on, I have to know. What happened?”

“Nothing much,” he said at last, echoing her earlier answer about Tim.
“I let him know his options for a confidant aren’t as limited as he seems to
think. He can talk to any of a number of men who have been maneuvered
into taxis and limos over the years by Muffy, Penny, Binky, Bunny, and the
rest of them. Ergo, he can leave you alone.”

“Thanks,” Selina grinned. “I will admit that hearing sordid details
of Eddie’s sex life isn’t exactly what I think of when the dog bites or the
bee stings.”

“You might have mentioned his ‘new black’ theory after the opera, by the
way.”

“Well, you might have mentioned Clark was coming to offer me tigers,” she
replied casually.

Behind that closed door in Bruce’s
mind, Psychobat’s indignation burned a little hotter than before. The
implied comparison between Clark—that would be Superman’s secret identity,
which he had revealed to her because he was bringing her fully and
openly into all areas of his life—and “Eddie,” her little pet name for The
Riddler, the criminal who she invited into his house… And
then, a cold afterthought freezing over that burning indignation: He had
invited a criminal into his house first. He brought Catwoman into his
house in the first place, freely and willingly. Just like he’d put
that gold bar in the safe in the first place.

“It’s completely wrong,” Bruce announced sourly, shutting out the hideous
thoughts in a brusque return to the subject. “His theory. Rogues
are the new black? Only Nigma’s ego could come up with that.”

“Yes, Kitten, exactly. There’s
you and me. Look at the other Rogues in question.
Two-Face and Riddler aren’t random Batman adversaries, they’re your
friends. Claudia might have honestly looked at Harvey initially as
a single, straight, Harvard man with a presentable wardrobe who can order
off a wine list. But I know these women. It doesn’t take them
long to notice who only gets a smile in the receiving line and whose table
I’ll stop at and chat for ten minutes, who gets a simple invitation to the
winter ball and who’s invited to the dinner before and the after party
later.”

“I don’t understand, you’re saying—”

“That Harvey and Nigma are a way to
get close to you—and by extension, get close to me. That’s why
Claudia ‘traded up’ when she saw Nigma sitting with you at the opera.
That’s what social climbers do.”

Selina laughed.

“Okay, I think there’s just a touch of
ego in your theory too, Stud, but we’ll let that go because it does
make more sense. But we are not telling Eddie that you’re the reason
he just got laid for the first time in twenty months.”

“I have no intention of telling Nigma anything. I wanted him out of
the house; I told him as much as was necessary to accomplish that.
Beyond that, he can keep his theory. It’s not my place or in anything
approaching my interest to help Edward Nigma with his love life.”

“It’s not exactly help. Just letting him know a fairly important
piece of information about what’s going on. First holding back on
Clark and the tigers, now this.”

“They have nothing to do with each other,” Bruce insisted angrily.
“Why do you keep linking them?”

“It just seems like something’s going on with you lately,” Selina said,
ignoring the anger. “And I’d like to know what it is.”

Bruce sighed.

“Selina, the Catitat is yours, entirely yours. It’s your special
place, and now that I’m paying for it, I wasn’t about to come around a week
later asking favors for the League.”

He didn’t add that he’d put her name on that checking account so he
wouldn’t have to see, hear about, touch, or think of those gold bars again.
Gold bars he’d offered “for the Catitat” as a plausible incentive to lead
her to uncover his Ivy predicament. Gold bars, one of which had been
hidden in that safe. He didn’t need the reminder that she had been
inside that safe, so when she mentioned paying taxes on the Catitat, he’d
blurted “use the checkbook” to make the whole subject go away…

“Whereas with Nigma,” he continued, “I will repeat that it is not my
place to help the man out with his private life. I wanted him out of
the house. I achieved that. If you find it necessary to inform
him that these socialites are throwing themselves at him in order to get
close to you and therefore me, that’s not my concern. I would only ask
that you not ask him to tea in the drawing room to do it.”

“Is this because I brought him to the opera?” Selina asked suddenly.

“What?” Bruce exclaimed. Here he was trying to explain how Clark
and Riddler were in no way comparable and that his behavior in relation to
either in no way constituted a pattern. What did the opera have to do
with anything?

“It just seems like you’re a lot pissier than usual,” Selina said simply.
“The opera house is special for us. I wondered if maybe you’re upset
that I asked him to go in your place.”

While no crimefighter, she was fairly sure denying something (twice) that
you hadn’t even been accused of was as good as a confession.

Harvey didn’t have a nightmare about
Two-Face, but he did sleep in until two and then stared malevolently at the
clock with that chance thought “Happy Fate” echoing in his head.
Harvey was a pessimist. He was happy, more than not, that the healing
had removed Two-Face from his life, but the idea that his life had
actually turned around, that his luck had turned, that he was no
longer “Fate’s Bitch” as Selina once declared, it was strangely terrifying.
If the Worst wasn’t lurking around the corner to splash his face with acid,
then what was? If Devastation wasn’t getting out of a double-decker
bus even now, double checking the address on a little slip of paper, and
preparing to knock twice on his door, then—

Knock Knock

Harvey felt the air tighten his lungs.

Knock Knock Knock

Okay. Well. Three knocks were better than two.

“Harvey, are you home?” asked a more resplendent and beautiful voice than
any heard the night before at the opera.

“Oh, that’s nothing,” he said with a dismissive gesture. “I just
got up.”

After the obligatory round of “You’re sure it’s not a bad time?,” “No
really, I insist,” and finally an offer and acceptance of coffee, they
settled down at Harvey’s kitchen table, and Eddie looked around for a
conversation starter.

“This place would’ve made quite the base for Two-Face,” he observed.
“Lots of room. Hardest part devising a decent bat-trap, so many spaces
in the city are so cramped. That’s fine if you’re content to drop him
through a trapdoor as soon as he steps inside, but I like to make him wander
a little bit.”

“The theatre isn’t for sale,” Harvey said flatly.

“Oh, I wasn’t asking. Just making chit-chat,” Eddie said lightly.
“Chit-chat, CAT HITCH, you know. Devising a good bat-trap isn’t as
easy as people think. What did you always find the hardest part?”

“Keeping Darth from going ‘two out of three’ when the coin flip didn’t go
his way,” Harvey said acidly. “Eddie, look, I think I know why you’re
here.”

Eddie blanched. How could Harvey know? He couldn’t know.
He’d only got as far as bat-traps, he didn’t even make the transition from
CAT HITCH to Selina…

“About Muffy,” Harvey was saying.

…CAT HITCH to Selina, how nice Selina looked at the opera, and that would
lead to their being in Bruce’s box, which introduced Bruce Wayne as a
subject and Bruce and Selina as a couple, and—Muffy? Muffy?
Oh yes, Muffy… “What do you call ivory lace with little rosebuds?”
Eddie murmured absently, reverting to a riddling format instinctively,
although there was no answer to his query.

“As you probably guessed,” Harvey said with a gruff cough, “it was very
casual. We had five, six dates since the Post party. Two ships
that pass, that’s all. Still, it was awfully good of you to come by
this morning.”

“Y-yes,” Eddie said, grasping at the excuse. “That’s exactly why I
came by this morning, to make sure we were okay, because I had gone home
with Muffy, and Muffy had been with you.”

“Right,” Harvey said, slightly confused by the formal recitation.

“Well, good,” Eddie said with a gamely nod. How was he going to get
the conversation back to bats, cats, Selina and Wayne?

“You know the love story is a tacked on complication in that opera last
night,” he said, tossing out the first thought that came to mind.
“Original story was just about the crime. Hermann. Obsession.
Guess that was too straightforward for everybody, so they toss in this girl,
make it a love story that really just gets in the way of everything.”

“I suppose that’s one way of looking at it,” Harvey admitted.

“You don’t find it gets in the way?” Eddie asked petulantly.

“To tell the truth, I wasn’t really paying attention. I’m not into
opera. I had a transistor radio in my pocket. Knights were
playing.”

“Well take my word for it, the HE TRY TO SOLVE love story messes up
everything.”

“More coffee?” Harvey suggested.

“Selina looked good,” Eddie noted as Harvey got up to get the coffee pot.

“She always does,” Harvey agreed.

“She always looks good but not that good. That was special.
The dress, the hair, the creamy shoulders, that was… unprecedented.
Wayne’s a lucky bastard.”

Eddie watched closely for a reaction, but Harvey just poured coffee into
the mugs without saying a word.

“He had to work,” Eddie tried again. “That’s why he couldn’t go
last night. Business trip.”

“Busy man, it happens,” Harvey said lightly.

“Yes, I suppose.” The words came
out sour and disapproving, and although Eddie detested Bruce Wayne more and
more by the minute, it was his frustration with the Harvey situation which
caused that marked undercurrent of bitterness in his tone. He had to
be subtle, just in case Harvey didn’t know. And the most casual
approaches to “Bruce Wayne” as a topic of conversation were the opera and
the Gotham Post party. Eddie had hoped to avoid the party, seeing as
Harvey met Claudia there and any talk of the costumes was bound to evoke her
gloriously leafy rendition of Poison Ivy. There had to be some way to
hint about Wayne without getting near Claudia—although, the crashing
afterthought sounded in his head, it was obviously a little late to worry
about getting near Claudia. It was like leaving the riddle after
robbing the concert hall. But the opera talk was getting them nowhere.
There was no other choice if Eddie wanted to get some answers.

“I’d have to say the last time I saw Selina looking that good was that
Post shindig. Of course, she always looks her best in the purple,
wouldn’t you say? No wonder Bats goes tripping over his cape.”

“I, eh, never thought about it,” Harvey said cautiously.

“Never thought about it? Harvey,
every man not yet decrepit has thought about it.”

“Some thinking I left to Darth,” Harvey murmured uncomfortably.

“Wayne dressing as Bats to match her, though, must say I thought that was
a stumble. Bruce Wayne made a silly-looking excuse for a Batman, don’t
you think?”